


the chain that snaps

by crownlessliestheking



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A few sexual implications, Angst, Canon-Compliant, Foreboding, Foreshadowing, Gen, Kinging, M/M, Nargothrond, Political Intrigue (the Beginning), Tolkien Secret Santa 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/crownlessliestheking
Summary: Finrod is wise, he is the Hewer of Caves, he has walked among Men and learned of their ways, more so than any of his kin except perhaps his eldest cousin in chill Himring. He built this realm as a haven for his people, to keep them safe against the ever-growing dark, and he has bled for them.He knows now with cold certainty that he will bleed for them again. Finrod knows the snake that lurks in the grass, but he is not so cruel as to kill it when it is simply doing what it must to survive.[Or, Curufin and Celegorm arrive in Nargothrond.]
Relationships: Curufin | Curufinwë & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Curufin | Curufinwë/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Comments: 9
Kudos: 24





	the chain that snaps

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Tolkien Secret Santa 2020! Hope you like it :)

The throne digs into his lower back, but Finrod consoles himself as he has all day- with the knowledge that this is but a formality he must sit through as King, and that on the morrow, he can be off, leaving Artaresto in charge once more. The Dwarrowfolk in Belegost, he thinks- it has been many a year since last he visited, since they named him Felagund and he took the epessë unto himself gladly and delighted in it.

He does not know them well, for all that their realms trade; they are a secretive bunch, but Finrod has treated with them, broken bread, and they have fought with the Noldor. That is enough to forge ties, he thinks. And besides, he longs to see the mountains again, breathe in the crisp air. Nargothrond is beautiful, and it is his in a way that no corner of Aman had been, but the crown is itself a shackle at times.

Ruefully, Finrod thinks that perhaps he is not suited to kingship and its more tedious daily tasks. His thoughts stray for a moment, back to Valinor, where his father is no doubt High King of the Noldor. He may be better suited for it. Certainly, kingship in Aman has less- contention. There is, after all, no Enemy to contend with.

He shifts in his throne again. He suspects his father’s throne is rather more comfortable too, if it sees any use, but movement near the entrance to the hall catches his eye.

“My lord,” says Artaresto, coming into the hall. He sketches out a bow, brief. He is tenser than usual- for all that Finrod tries to get him to relax, he refuses steadfastly- and that draws his attention immediately.

“Nephew,” Finrod greets him, straightening up. The metal of his throne presses uncomfortably against his spine as he does. “I had thought you were out ranging with some of the guard.”

So as to avoid Finrod himself doing so, he does not say, but the fond exasperation is still clear in his voice. Finrod has never been one to deny his emotions.

“I was,” comes the answer. “We encountered two others, journeying to Nargothrond from Himring.”

Not Maedhros or Maglor, Finrod suspects. Not from the look on Artaresto’s face, brows drawn together, lips turned into a frown. Around him, the court stirs in unease. Finrod rises from the throne, and his nephew strides over to stand next to him.

“Come, then, tell me who it is you found wandering the road?” he prompts, voice light to lift the shroud of gloom that is descending upon the room. “Surely not more from Himlad who had thought to shelter there before they grew weary of the chill? There is room plenty in these halls, and perhaps they may even find those who they thought were lost here.”

But Artaresto remains silent, and there is an uncertain look about his face.

“Yes, indeed, more from Himlad, fair cousin,” comes a familiar, lazy drawl from the entrance through the hall. There had been a wave of murmurs across the room earlier, but now the silence is a death knell. “Surely you would not turn us away? You have already taken in many of our people.”

“A gift so freely given would be miserly if rescinded,” says another voice, soft as an echo, but twice as sharp.

No. Not Maedhros, nor Maglor, though he would have welcomed them no matter how grim the former has become, nor how much the latter is prone to dramatics. Nor Ambarussa, always together, fey and laughing though that too has changed. Nor dark Caranthir, who last Finrod had heard from a succinct letter, had also met with those of the Houses of Men.

Instead, Curufin and Celegorm, as they are called now, stand before him. They are much changed, Finrod realizes, with the first flicker of his own unease.

These are his cousins, and he cannot deny them audience.

And yet-

Finrod is wise, he is the Hewer of Caves, he has walked among Men and learned of their ways, more so than any of his kin except perhaps his eldest cousin in chill Himring. He built this realm as a haven for his people, to keep them safe against the ever-growing dark, and he has bled for them.

He knows now with cold certainty that he will bleed for them again. Finrod knows the snake that lurks in the grass, but he is not so cruel as to kill it when it is simply doing what it must to survive.

(But oh, at what cost? No. He need not ask that. Deep in his soul, he already knows, he hears the bells of mourning toll and tastes the must of the grave on his tongue.)

Especially not when it was their swords that protected his lands from Morgoth, before the Bragollach, when their brothers’ swords still do. Especially not when they are still bound by blood, when he remembers Tyelko as a fey youth in Oromë’s train, and Curvo sharp-tongued and fumbling in turns, cheeks flushed a becoming red when Finrod teased him just so. It was not only Carnistir who deserved the epithet, although Curvo was much harder to provoke.

Perhaps he is soft- certainly, Curvo-as-he-was would mock him for it, and no doubt Curufin-as-he-is will have many a thing to say about it. But he has never encountered a single thing he could not form an opinion of, and those, Finrod are well-used to hearing. No, for the love that he once bore them and the love he bears Curvo still (and so, the love that Curvo bears for his brother), he cannot turn them away.

“Cousins,” Finrod greets them, warm. It is a sharp contrast to Artaresto’s coolness, the cutting edge of his formality. He stands, and tries not to seem too visibly relieved by it.

“Your necklace is the work of the Khazad, in the mountains,” Curufin says, in lieu of any true greeting. His eyes gleam the way they once did in fair Aman, a smith’s gaze, assessing quality and artistry, rather than being lent to cunning and cutting. It is good to see him look this way once more, rather than hollow and lit with the terrible flame of the Oath. His resemblance to his father has only increased, but he is much wearier than Fëanáro ever was.

Finrod does not get to answer before his nephew speaks.

“Kneel,” Artaresto says softly, from next to him. “Before the King of Nargothrond.” Never has Finrod heard his nephew so speak, iron-willed and vicious. But the fall of Minas Tirith to Sauron has changed him, made him more suspicious, and Finrod cannot yet blame him for this. But he still mislikes it. Those are not the marks of kingship. Nor, he thinks, is it the best way of dealing with his cousins. Fëanor’s get are proud and flighty, Tyelko and Curvo more so than most- the former laconic and dangerous, ever the skilled hunter, and the latter has more than earned his father-name. It still aches to think of, at times; Curvo’s admiration of him had been endearing when they were younger, but after the Oath, Finrod had not known whether to shake him or curse him for folly. But his cousins have not been gifted with foresight; that belongs to his father’s line alone.

Still. They kneel, and Finrod inhales sharply, subtly. He had not expected this. The first to do so is little Tyelperinquar, though he is little no longer. He does not look unhappy about it. The second is Tyelkormo, sinking gracefully to a single knee. It is a shockingly traditional Noldorin bow; Finrod wonders at its insolence now. And Curufinwe, second of his name, is third to do so, but his head does not incline more than the barest degree, and there is that fell flame in his eyes once more as his gaze bores into them.

(Once, he knew well the intensity of being at the center of Curvo’s attention, and he had revelled in it. It was like the heat of the flames he used in the forge, white hot. Finrod had watched him there once, in those years of light, when they were young and not yet grown out of their fathers’ shadows. He had seen Fëanor’s favored son handle molten metal with his bare hands as his father did, and shape it to his will. The red-white glow had clung to sweat-slick skin, his hair tied back in working braids not quite suited to a Prince of the Noldor. Finrod had been surprised to find beauty in that intensity, in the cousin who had seen them as naught but foes, even then.)

(Curvo had warmed to him. It had taken a lot of work. The memory glows in his chest, even now. Smiles, coaxed out carefully; touches, when they could be spared; more besides as the thrum of the connection between them deepened, little by little. Finrod did not so much fall, in those days, as he had sauntered vaguely downwards, until he was in the middle of it yet had not even noticed, until they were closer than any other pair, Curvo’s walls slowly lowering around him and Finrod himself growing more than fond of his most prickly cousin.)

(And then.)

(Well.)

(His uncle had quite the temper, and he and Curvo had ever followed in their father’s footsteps.)

(Or, Curvo had. Finrod knows not what his own father must have thought, to see his children refuse to turn back, lured across the ice by the promise of lands of their own. Ambition, he thinks wryly, has always been a Fëanorian trait, not one. But forgiveness, but love over all, even wisdom? That, he thinks, he has learned from his father, though Arafinwë had not embodied it when last they had stood together.)

And how it must cost them, his proud cousins, to kneel before him now.

He wonders if he ought to feel powerful. He doesn’t. He feels uncomfortable, magnified by the fact that none of them (Tyelperinquar excepted) seem to be attempting to mask their displeasure at being made to kneel. Fëanorian pride indeed, he thinks, with a hint of the fondness that lay slumbering inside him in the long years they have not seen each other.

“They did make my necklace,” he answers, belatedly, as a peace offering. “It is called the Nauglamir, one of the finest gifts I have received.” And this is not a statement to offend; anyone who looks upon it would be able to tell the truth.

Perhaps he should have predicted that Curufin would take it personally.

Finrod does not wear the jewellery Curvo had gifted him, all those years ago. He has but a lone ring and two beads for his hair, both of which he had worn across the Ice. The other gifts by his cousin’s hand lie across the sea. He had not thought of it, until now- but there is no doubt that Curufin has noticed what he is and is not adorned with.

But there is no answer, to his words. An offer made and rejected. His nephew bristles at his side, and Finrod lifts a hand to silence him before he can speak.

“I see you’ve taught your kin to heel,” Curufin says, amused and wicked-soft. “Perhaps Tyelko ought to take lessons from you when it comes to that beast of his.”

“Father-,” Tyelpe starts, only to be cut off by his uncle. The tempering influence is clear. Celegorm and Curufin have always been together, antagonists and allies to each other in turn.

“No need for jealousy, brother dear; none other than I could be Huan’s favorite,” comes the retort.

Yet something feels forced about their banter.

“He is welcome to the kennels, if you like,” Finrod breaks in, with smile that is only slightly forced. “For as long as you are here- though you have yet to say your purpose in this visit, and my dear nephew would be greatly soothed to hear it.”

Curufin’s eyes flick to Orodreth, then away. Assessed and dismissed, and his nephew takes it as a slight.

“Yes,” he says. “I am sure he would. Well, O King, it simple. We have come to reunite with those of our folk who came here after the Bragollach; we had thought most would be in Himring with Maedhros, but instead they fled here.”

“And we cannot blame them, for it is grim in those mountains,” Celegorm adds. “Your realm, we hear, has a much warmer welcome.”

Ah.

Finrod feels as if there is an arrow in the distance, notched and waiting, pointing at him. Aimed, ready to be fired.

He cannot deny them, when he has not denied their folk. It is too obvious a slight. And truth be told, he has missed them, he has missed his cousins.

~~He has missed Curvo.~~

And there would be two others to assist his nephew, when he is gone on his trips, both of them experienced leaders in their own right.

Yet.

He hesitates. He knows that Curufin sees him hesitate, hears it in the sharp inhale, sees it in the way his nostrils flare.

These are not the cousins he loved. They are leaders, yes, but they are ruthless; they had to be, to hold their lands for so long. Grim Maedhros was made so by his time as a captive, but it had shaped his brothers, too. And there is a hollowness to their fëa, too, something that gnaws and bites. Claws in the dark, hidden, fangs under soft lips.

But have they not always been so?

He finds it difficult to convince himself of it this time.

But they need an answer, he cannot deliberate, and- well. Perhaps there was only ever one answer. He knows what Artaresto would say, yet the decision is his to make, and his alone.

~~The mistake, is his to make.~~

A breath, the arrow flies.

Finrod stands before his throne, arms outstretched.

“For the love which I bore you in Aman, for our shared blood-,” and oh, Finrod does not miss the way Tyelkormo must rest a hand on his brother’s arm, nor the way Curufinwe ducks his head in a long-familiar motion, so that the fall of his dark hair hides his expression, -“you may stay.”

“Thank you.” Tyelpe is again the first to speak, and he does his father no favors in this. He looks like his father, yes, but there is much of his mother in him too, and Finrod’s heart twists in his chest. Ah, how they had grown apart. He had not thought that Curvo would have a son, he had not found out until the child was presented for its naming ceremony. Curufinwë Tyelperinquar, third of his father-name, third of dark hair and silver eyes, though his did not burn as his grandfather’s, nor cut like his father’s. Finrod finds himself staring even now, thinking that despite the harshness of Beleriand, he still has a softness to him that Curvo had not in Valinor.

They rise smoothly, Celegorm first, then him, then Curufin.

Steel-silver eyes, bright and hollow as an imploding star, bore into his own.

“Yes. Thank you, O King, for your hospitality.” Curufin’s lips shape the words, tone just shy of disrespect.

 _You will be the one kneeling tonight_ , _cousin_ , his expression says.

“I could not deny my cousins,” Finrod demurs instead. “Come, now. I shall show you where most of your people currently dwell- and cousin, if you wish to join me in a hunt tomorrow, there shall be a feast?”

Celegorm’s eyes flicker. “It would be my pleasure, cousin.”

Curufin matches him, stride for stride, as they leave the court, and the hairs at the back of Finrod’s neck rise as Celegorm prowls behind him. Tyelpe is a brush of familiarity behind his uncle, but not one that serves to comfort him.

His chest aches, and he feels blood iron-bitter and foul flood his mouth, and Finrod thinks, _ah_. _There it is._


End file.
